The Vignette Collection
by BasiliskRules
Summary: Here you shall enjoy the fics that I feel are too short to be posted independently and/or I feel are better if read as part of a whole. Also, possible fragments of larger fics that can stand on their own too. Expect a lot of character study, introspection, parallels, missing moments, overanalysis of actual moments, vague symbolism, angst, poetry, and nope.
1. The First Day of Wrath

**See? I _can_ actually write stuff without inserting poetic quotes of far better writers in the middle of it.**

* * *

oOo

* * *

Deep breath.

It's a defence mechanism he has developed over the years.

Close your eyes. Calm down and concentrate, keep your mind together as it teeters over the abyss. Ignore the tantalising promise of madness, of blissful oblivion.

Try to hold on to what you still have.

He paces around aimlessly, shaking, his chest and throat burning, and shuts out the gloating voice that's coming from the chair. Tries to. _Try,_ damn you. Hold on.

 _("Please! Please, I'm begging you.")_

He gives a hollow, hopeless curse under his breath, and his vision threatens to blur. No. No tears. Falling down. Down we go to the nightmare place, to join the voices. This is a nightmare anyway, so why not? All the screams like singing in the void.

And it has never occurred to him before, but the very fact that he _has_ this defence –and that it's failing– says a lot about his life.

(Yeah, let's call it that.)

 _What have you still got?_

There's Kate, back on Earth.

There's a handful of companions going about their hopefully good lives. The lucky ones. He hasn't seen them in ten centuries.

 _And as soon as you're back in the Vortex, they might as well be dead. Hi, year 3,000,000. So what does it matter? Why? Why anything?_

(He knows, he knows it's not like that, but what he _knows_ doesn't matter. Not now.)

There's his planet, lost, somewhere out there, and he'll never find it. Skaro's back though, of course it is, he found that. Stop it, it's not funny anymore. Home is where the heart is; and he's got two hearts and no home and he's always running. Away. Just away.

 _She lied; she lied, of course she did, what did you expect, and now she's gone, she's dead again and this time it isn't just to spite you or because she deserves it, she's dead along with_ –

There's his poor old TARDIS, a living soul encased in hard wood and metal that can't comfort or console, that can soothe no grief, if, _if_ the Hostile Action Dispersal System worked. He can't sense her from here. With any luck, though he doesn't feel remotely lucky, he might just manage an escape.

Oh.

There's his life.

You know, the one you just surrendered to your archenemy, _but justice doesn't work like that. You don't get to decide when and how your debt is paid,_ and he chose to hurt you instead, just _hurt_ you, deeply.

 _("Why have I ever let you live?")_

Funny, the little things that slip your mind. Your life. That usually counts, doesn't it? It probably depends on how much you care. You would never beg on bended knee, not for that. And yet it seemed so precious just a week ago.

(But it was fear seeping into your bones then, just fear and guilt and resignation, _I'm scared of dying, I'm tired of pain_ , not this breathless flood of impotent despair. _Clara–_ )

"It took me so very long to realise it was you, standing at the gates of my beginning. And here you are at the end. But this time, I have you at my mercy."

The voice pierces through, and oh, he's still here, isn't he.

 _(Why indeed. Okay then, "just once".)_

He grabs the Dalek gun from the mess of spare parts on the dusty table and viciously jams it at the back of his head. Point it at him, hands trembling with hate.

"You would threaten a dying man? Have I not suffered enough?"

(Oh Davros, but you see, yes, _compassion is wrong._ )

"GET OUT!"

Face inhuman, baring teeth. He's perversely glad that there are no mirrors in the room, he can feel it radiating off him like heat; and maybe hate doesn't look like a Dalek after all.

Over the edge.

And he decides that no, what he still has, what he's been left with this time is not enough.

.

.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! Comments are tremendously appreciated, and usually responded to.**


	2. The Quality of Mercy

**This bit was originally lost in the Great Computer Crash of 2016. Fuck that year in general. But, to quote our old friend Aragorn, " _It has been remade!"_**

* * *

OoO

* * *

The muddy ground on the screen is the same he was walking on just a minute ago. Or close enough, at least.  
The materialisation is careful and precise to a fault. Can't afford any mistakes or accidents, not this time.  
(The Old Girl seems to agree.)

Though he has to admit, that was almost impressive of her. With his track record, it's a wonder he doesn't stumble on Gallifrey one day, without meaning to. But of course that'd be too easy, wouldn't it?

 _They say that the ulanda trees wouldn't bloom or bear fruit during the War. That the schlenk blossoms went extinct, burnt away by the rain. Never had the time to check; but it's probably true. Pity._

He looks at the desolation outside, clearly evident even on the scanner; and sighs, pushing down thoughts that are far too close for comfort. _  
"How far we have come to go home again…"_  
Where the heart is, as they say on Earth.

He opens the door and steps out, into the foggy wasteland.

.

.

"Who are you?"  
 _Just a bloke in a box, telling stories._  
"I don't get it. How did you get there?"  
 _Look up Ancient Greek theatre, kid. Fancy machines, those.  
_ "From the future."  
"Are you going to save me?"  
 _You were torturing me to death fifteen minutes ago. A word to the wise, don't do that to other potential rescuers, they might not be me._  
"I'm going to save my friend the only way I can. Exterminate!"

And he sees the child shrink back as he raises the gun, lower his head in fear, looking at Death ( _a spitting image of his eleventh self in the Asylum, pleading with the Dalek, the monster, Oswin,_ **_Clara_** –), because everyone else is dead, _they burnt with you, there was a war,_ and why would anyone save _him_ , why would he ever be worth saving, _why do they hate you so much_ –

(I'm the Doctor.)  
 _Compassion, then.  
Always._  
He wouldn't die of anything else.

"Come on, I'll take you home."  
"Which side are you on? Are you the enemy?"  
Hesitantly, fear and suspicion still lingering; looking at Hope.

He walks closer, looking reassuringly into the young face. Searches for that priceless spark he knows –or perhaps just hopes, foolishly– hasn't been extinguished.  
(Yet.)  
But that's not the point, is it?  
"I'm not sure that any of that matters, friends, enemies. So long as there's mercy. Always mercy."

He holds out his hand. The boy takes it, just this once, and it feels like redemption. Look, the sun's coming up. We're on the same side now.

 _Compassion is right, Davros. Compassion is right._

 _._


	3. As the storm grows closer (run for it)

**Time for some bizarre humour.**

* * *

OoO

* * *

"Oh, _fuuuuck_ ".

Rodartralathkgoregreyadrex slowly averted his eyes from the small, microscope-like device, rose to his feet and started methodically ruining his haircut with both hands.

"What? Already?!"

"No. _No!"_ somebody else in the room protested.

"Yes. Oh, yes!" Rodartralathkgoregreyadrex said with a hysterical giggle. He surveyed the other four young Time Lords in the room. "We're so screwed."

The answer was a brief chorus of uncharacteristically foul but appropriate curses, lamentations, and swearwords, especially the one rhyming with "duck". Daldroll, a skinny ginger of the Arcalian Chapter kicked a stool.

"I told them it was a bad idea! I told them! But _nooo,_ we know better!" He shoved a silently despairing Rodartralathkgoregreyadrex out of the way and pressed his eye to the small view screen. "Now look at this! Look at this shit!"

"Oh, God. Oh, God!"

"This is no time to panic-"

"I beg to differ!"

 _"We_ did nothing wrong!"

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, I agree."

"WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!"

"Oh, shut up!"

Daldroll was rewarded with about ten seconds of tense silence. Klikath, known as "The Poet" to his friends, awkwardly took a sip of coffee. The peculiar Earth drink was gaining popularity in the Academy, as did the lucky few who had decided to smuggle it in. Finally, Rodartralathkgoregreyadrex spoke, rather reluctantly.

"Well, I'm gonna go tell the Council, shall I?"

"Good luck, mate."

The man nodded, and shuffled out of the room. An extremely anxious minute later, he burst back in, panting.

"What did they say?"

"They say get it the hell out of the city! Now!"

"Good idea!" said Klikath.

"Well, of course _we_ 've got to do it," Daldroll murmured, rolling his eyes.

.

* * *

"Drawing lots? Really?"

"Hey, if you want to volunteer, Rodar, that's all fine by us."

"I didn't say that!"

"Uuuh, guys? I really think we'd better hurry."

"What is that even going to accomplish?! Oh God, h-he's gonna get here, and he's gonna be _angry as fuck,_ and he's gonna wreck the whole damn place, I'm telling you!"

"For the record, I did say this was not going to work. I mean, you saw what happened last time with that silly little planet, nine hundred years, the man is bloody stubborn-"

"I SAID HURRY!"

.

* * *

And so it came to pass that on that fine morning, many inhabitants of the Citadel were treated to the spectacle of the unlucky Time Lord named Steve awkwardly running through the corridors while carrying something small and cursing under his breath, with a petrified expression, his robes billowing behind him, and both hands extended in front of him like a kid with his goldfish in a leaky bag, or a man holding a time bomb.

Curious eyewitnesses later mentioned that the young member of the Hybrid Committee (Operation "Doctor", Department 5, Subdivision 7), was saying something about "a stupid bunch of twits who sit on their arses all day", "this bloody idiotic idea with the confession dial, honestly", and "fire and brimstone coming down from the sky". But mostly, "fuck my life".

.

* * *

 **Title quote and general inspiration from Steven Moffat's Q &A from DWM #495. I had this really silly idea of the Time Lords freaking out and some poor bastard having to run/fly/teleport/insert-gallifreyan-transportation-here off to dump the confession dial out of the city.**

 **Steve the unlucky Time Lord is my spirit animal. Hey, if there's a Dalek Steve, a Master Clone Steve, _and_ a Silent Steve...**


	4. For Whom the Cloister Bell Tolls

**People, I am disappoint. Come on, are you not entertained?!**

* * *

oOo

* * *

He is standing there, a lone figure under the bright, burnt orange sky.

.

He looks up at it, looks around. He hesitates briefly, then takes off the sunglasses (the barrier, the armour), letting the familiar hues and shapes invade his vision. What could he scan, what could he use them here for, anyway? There's nothing that he observes which is unknown.

The small golden disk weighs heavily now, drags his hand to the dry, cracked ground –the ground once so beloved, so mourned for and so sacred– so he puts it in his coat pocket, bigger on the inside for the bigger on the inside.

He doesn't feel anything.

 _"Home; the long way round"._

He takes a deep breath (every single element in the air just perfect, his body made to breathe them) and it seems to get stuck somewhere above his chest. His gaze drifts again to the mountains, to the sky.

The Citadel looms in the distance, gleaming, pristine, the dome around it shining in the light as if the War had never happened.

Home.

(Heavy, heavy disk in his pocket, betrayal is heavy, death is heavy, eternity is an intolerable weight, eternity is a _very long time_ ).

He does feel something now and it is bitterness.

He should be falling to his knees on the ground, on the dry, sacred earth, running his fingers over, through it, kissing it – _how many years, oh, how many?_ – blessing the tiniest stone, the whistling wind, the sunlight, the beautiful Citadel with its towering spires, blessing the universe. He should be smiling, laughing the most joyous laughter in all of his lives, he should be crying, choking back sobs and struggling to breathe, his hearts pouring out the poison, the desperate longing of all the long years. Flowers ought to be springing from the teardrops like they do in fairytales and songs.

He's standing, almost still, looking at the city, and his eyes are dry and the muscles of his face can't smile, seem to have forgotten how to.

He _should be happy_ , he should be the happiest man in all of creation at this moment.

 _Home._

But Gallifrey shouldn't just be the means to an end, no matter what the end is. It shouldn't just be an escape, the only escape from Hell itself, from cold-blooded heartlessness the Daleks themselves wouldn't inflict on him, from betrayal and ungratefulness so huge that he almost regrets his name, his promise; and eternity is a _very long time_.

They've taken away his joy, a joy for which he died more than once, a joy so dearly paid for he had dared hope that he deserved it.

They have stolen his joy, his ability to love them, love his home _(little by little, in a stony tomb of suffering and sorrow)_ , and he hates them all the more for it; _if_ something can be hated more by someone than he already does.

.

And yet…

There _is_ affection, despite everything, somewhere deep down, even for the city shining magnificently in the distance, both its good and its evil well hidden. There is still love, great love, he knows, somewhere in his hearts, a place that is being blocked by this raw fury. And there is also a promise, an order not to take revenge. So he won't.

There will be no vengeance; but there might be justice.

He'll leave it up to them: usually _he_ isn't the one to come in guns blazing, judge, jury and executioner after all. _They_ tend to be experts.

He has another reason to be here, a purpose well worth a trillion of his deaths, greater than revenge, higher than justice.

A single life, cut down. A dear friend he might be able to save (in some way, in any way), from a cruel, unjust fate, no matter what it takes. A duty of care.

.

Slowly, he turns away from the city and he starts walking, taking off his coat and letting it hang over his shoulder. Slowly, through the quiet dessert –and then through one not so quiet as the Cloister Bells begin to toll, _good–_ he heads back to the beginning.

There is a place where a kind stranger once comforted him when he was scared. It is okay to be afraid, it really is, don't cry.

 _"Let me be brave…"_

He intends to pay the stranger back.

.

.

* * *

 **A missing, tragic moment; the key to everything, and what the Doctor must have felt: _"Should"._**


	5. Moments from a Story, part 1

**Because the Series 9 finale is often misunderstood and underappreciated and it deserves more love. I will be your champion! Yes, this had originally been uploaded by itself, but I changed my mind and incorporated it here.  
**

 **Contains quotes from _Prometheus Unbound_ by ******Percy Bysshe Shelley because come on, this is me we're talking about. Oh, and Coldplay.  
****

* * *

OoO

* * *

The wind smells faintly of time.

It's not really something he perceives through smell alone, nor could he explain it to a human. Or any other species really. He knows, at least intellectually, that it has to do with the presence of the Untempered Schism, not too far from here. But it's something more than that, and he feels that he could never truly describe it.

So maybe it's just as well that this time, he is alone.

(Obviously not; but maybe he can fool himself for a while, as he continues putting one foot in front of the other.)

The soft sounds of the sand are soon joined by the harsher ones of the bells in the city behind him, but he doesn't stop.

He tries to think of nothing, and fails as per usual.

 _("Three thousand years of sleep-unsheltered hours,  
And moments aye divided by keen pangs  
Till they seemed years, torture and solitude,  
Scorn and despair,—these are mine empire.")  
_  
And there it is.

The old barn seems smaller than he remembers.

(Then it occurs to him that every time he comes here he's frightened or feels like a child.)

Ghosts rise up with each step. The child struggles to open the creaking door his adult hand moves easily. The warrior paces next to him, head down, the TARDIS crying in his mind. The lonely hero pauses as he parks his own, jaw set in determination, and glances at the living one, eyes filled with pity. The Moment waves at him from the loft while the madman explains something, gesticulating wildly.

 _Those who are dead, are not dead, they're just living in my head-_

She… _she_ cries, because the Doctor made a promise, and he couldn't, wouldn't do such a thing.

 _Wouldn't he though?_ _ **Shouldn't**_ _he?_

The bitterness comes rushing back like a wave.

But there's a living, familiar voice as he looks at his old bed and someone enters, fussing. Someone he doesn't hate.

Well.

Recognition lights up her face and he nods, flesh and blood and bone hiding the hurricane, holding inside the storm.

He never seems to be alone when he comes here, at least not for long. Funny that.

.

* * *

The time of velvet and colours is long gone. His harsh, gaunt reflection glares back at him as he puts on the dark jacket, black on black on white. The blue eyes could have been living flint or steel.

There might have been a smile there once too, the ash-like marble melting into something beautiful, younger and kinder, just for a second. But the spark is now buried, somewhere deep down, and the fire can only last for so long before it goes out.

There's more knocking at the door. This time it's six Time Lords in full regalia who bow to him. He turns, goes back in, and lets the door slam shut again.

.

In the Citadel, Rassilon rages.

"What is he doing?!"  
Blue sparks fly off where the metal gauntlet strikes the table. No one dares answer, nobody can.

 _"Ask me what I want."  
_ Ohila is looking away from the Lord President, her face unreadable. He leans in, close to her.  
 _"I've been at the heart of your empire for forty two minutes, and I own it, and I haven't even got out of my chair. Ask me what I want."_  
(He's sitting on the bed holding the confession dial in his hand. So much fear and suffering over so small a thing.)  
"What does he want? Revenge?"  
(He thinks of the terror within, of the walls, and the sea that could have been painted red with his own blood, and his knuckles whiten on the small golden disk.)  
 _"Clara Oswald. I want Clara Oswald, safe, alive, and returned to me immediately. You bring her back. You do that. You do that now. Unharmed. Unhurt. Alive."  
_  
"The Doctor does not blame Gallifrey for the horrors of the Time War."  
"I should hope not."  
"He just blames you."

.

* * *

He holds back most of his rage as well as he can, and accepts what help is given to him. Because there _are_ people who give it, even here, some of love's many faces.

And he's ashamed, somewhere deep down, that he's too busy, too selfish now, too tired to be grateful.

.

* * *

"Why did you banish him?" she asks.

 _("He was a good man once."  
He doesn't try to deny it. But a part of him thinks, and chuckles bitterly, and he bites back the reply that springs to his lips. "So was I.")_

 _"_ Was it punishment, or for your own protection? Or are you just being cruel? Or just being cowardly?"  
Really, now? That's a low blow. But you're not getting me with that.  
"Let's see, shall we?"

 _"The Doctor is no longer here; you're stuck with me!"_

 _._

 _._


	6. Moments from a Story, part 2

**Contains quotes from** _ **The Ballad of Reading Gaol**_ **by Oscar Wilde.**

* * *

OoO

* * *

There is one, single, dizzying moment when he hesitates.

Oh, not in a "My God, what have I become" sort of way.

It just hits him, when he enters the Extraction Chamber, the raw _power_ that he has at his fingertips, for the first time ever.

And oh, why must he choose, save just one? How can he, when he has lost so many? How is that fair?

 _(KatarinaSarahKingdomAdricKamelionC'rizzAlexTamsinLucieAlistairRiverPonds-)_

Damn their rules. He _knows_ that it's worse, the further back he goes in his timeline. He _feels_ how Time bends and moves and strains, how even Clara's death could be too much.

Yes, some of their deaths needed to happen. Some were even _chosen_ for other lives, for _his_ life. Some, he knows, _lived_ first and were happy. And they would all tell him that he's being ridiculous.

Yeah. And?

Ripples, tidal waves, rules. And he's sick of losing people.

Oh, help, he could name anyone, _how is he going to do this?_

The universe seems to hold its breath as his catches in his in throat.

But somewhere, there's a scared little boy who doesn't want the other children to hear him cry. Somewhere, there's a terrified old man who is begging the girl in his head for an ounce of her strength as he wires himself to a teleporter. Somewhere, she's dying senselessly and unjustly, and she is young, too young, and brave despite her fear.

And now, he has a duty of care.

(She's his friend _now_ , she came with him, _he_ asked her to come. So he will not fail her.)

None of them should ever have to ask.

And the moment passes, and he remembers what he has come all this way for, and who's to blame. And he takes a breath and gives the coordinates to the Trap Street, his voice steady and cold.

.

* * *

He remembers an impossible decision.

He remembers the first time: running his tired fingers over the diamond, taking a deep breath, and striking, condemning himself to hell. His cry of pain echoing through eternity, torn out of the same throat, again and again.

He remembers counting his deaths as endless time built up in all its slow, horrific glory, an ally and an enemy all at once; a hybrid if you will.

In some other life, he might have laughed at that.

"I'll try not to break your jaw."  
"My jaw?"  
"I wasn't talking to you."

And so a tiny part of him marvels at how the impact of his fist on flesh and bone somehow, feels heavier.

.

* * *

"Doctor, I will not let you leave here. That's the sidearm of the President's personal security. There isn't a stun setting."

The inherent disadvantage of not carrying a gun is that you end up not knowing basic things about them when you inevitably have to grab one.

But his hand remains steady.

"I will not let Clara die."  
"She's been dead for half the lifetime of the universe! If you tried to change that, you could fracture Time itself. Doctor, Lord President, are you really going to take that risk?"  
"Doctor. Please, I don't want this. Put it down, please."

She takes his other hand, tentatively, and he knows what she's trying to do. She's looking for the softness in him, that compassion that seems to have frozen solid. And he might have been moved, he might have stopped, some other time.

But he _feels_ the warmth of her fingers on his, and he only remembers the dreadful coldness of her skin _then_ , the horrible stillness that comes without the rushing of blood and breath.

He had carried her inside –just a body, a thing now, she's gone, not _Clara_ anymore, but he couldn't bear to leave her on the cobblestones– cold and unresponsive and _not living_ , and his entire being violently rebels at the memory, and no, he will not stop, he won't put the gun down, not this time.

"Regeneration?"  
"Tenth."

(And in some other life, that, if anything, might have stopped him. For someone who ended alone and afraid, _I don't want to go, it feels like dying,_ it's not just a change of face and body, not really. But not now, with her life on the line; not anymore.)

"Good luck."  
"You too, sir."

He fires.

.

* * *

The key to the service hatch doesn't seem to be easy. But they're probably safe –for a bit– and he works at it. He presses a curved groove and he is rewarded with a clicking noise. Good.

And it strikes him suddenly, unexpectedly as he works, as he explains and chats with her, that it's really so marvelous, the way the mechanism slowly obeys him. How effortless it is, how skillful his hand is, the clever combination of muscle, bone, and nerve!

Clara is looking at him.

"How long has it been for you since you last saw me?"

(In a flash, he sees a mangled, burned and bleeding claw in its place. He blinks quickly, hard, and it dissipates.)

"I was stuck on a place. They-"  
"They what? Who? Who are we talking about?"  
"They wanted something from me. Information. It really doesn't matter."

And in a second of clarity, he's suddenly afraid that his movements are too quick, too spasmodic, his clever rambling too forcefully confident and carefree, his face too wild, that he is probably quite insane and that his eyes are showing it.

 _("…And some grow mad, and all grow bad, and none a word may say.")_

And she's still looking at him, carefully. Clara with her big, sad eyes, and her anger, and her never giving up, and her kindness.

"Tell me what they did to you. Tell me what happened to the Doctor."

.

* * *

"You have gone too far. You have broken every code you ever lived by."  
"After all this time, after everything I've done, don't you think the universe owes me this?"

 _("I don't think the universe makes bargains.")_

He remembers one time in Victorian London when she died –and how it did. So much anguish and suffering from the both of them is worth something, surely.

Oh, please.

She must live. She must, even if they have to part –though he viciously pushes that thought away for now.

But at the end of the everything, an immortal woman talks to him and absolves them both of guilt. And Clara refuses a safe tomorrow at the cost of her past and makes him listen. And he stops, because he would choose an uncertain tomorrow too. A hybrid indeed.

Fleetingly, he thinks that maybe there is another reason he chose this face after all.

Let someone else decide. Let's call it luck, or karma.

He deems the verdict just, even though it pains him. And she doesn't have to die in the end; not today.

He supposes it's fitting, in a way. Everyone dies. What does a doctor do? He buys them time, that's all.

 _("So, come on, then. Take mine. Take my memories.")_

It turns out that indeed, the universe doesn't make bargains. But sometimes, it takes pity.

.

* * *

Later, he finds a vintage music shop as he wanders around Nevada. The cashier calls out to him and presents him with an electric guitar. A gift, he says.

He has a few suspicions as to who might have bought it for him and he accepts it with a smile. After all, there's this new song he really wants to play.

.

* * *

The diner dematerialises around him and he's left with a beloved name, a barely familiar face, and a melody.

(Later, he will realise that he had also left his sonic sunglasses on the counter and he'll laugh. Gee, probably-Clara, good Ray-bans are not that easy to come by).

Clara has to be braver than him, that he knows, if she has learned to accept, not to fear these inevitable goodbyes.

 _(Did it work after all?_ a tiny part of him can't help but wonder. Is she free, her death no longer a fixed point, or does she still need to go back eventually – _Time machine_ , a little voice in his head whispers, and maybe it's hers or maybe it's his own too, _watch me run_ – and face the Raven? He can feel that Time is safe. Is it somewhere her fearless decision, her doing?)

He walks around the console room and the pang of sadness is quieter now. He feels as if he had regenerated. The pain will linger for a while, a yearning he can't quite grasp, even so. It always does, with endings.

But he knows why they parted. Why they _had to_ part.

And she was happy, wasn't she?

(If somewhere, somewhen, she's alive for a while, if she's happy, he doesn't mind that he can't remember what that happiness sounds like in her laughter.)

Ashes to ashes, stories to stories. The TARDIS starts singing in his mind, and layer by layer he puts himself back together one more time.

 _Run, you clever boy, and be a Doctor._

He goes down the steps, sets the ship flying, and decides to go and do just that.

.

.

-The end-

* * *

 ** _Hell Bent_** **suffers -apart from a general misunderstanding of its point and Moffat's ideas- from what I call** ** _The Return of the Jedi Syndrome. Jedi_** **isn't a bad movie. It's just that** ** _The Empire Strikes Back_** **is so inconcievable awesome, it's a tough act to follow. And so it is with** ** _Heaven Sent_** **, because come on,** ** _dude_** **.**


End file.
